


Give and Take

by ljs



Series: the Power stories [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 07:03:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5617699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a step or two off canon, where Anthea and Mycroft are a couple -- Mycroft is unhappy. Anthea wants to fix it.</p><p>(Inspired by a plot point in "The Abominable Bride.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give and Take

**He’s using again. We reached him in time. M.**

Anthea looked up from her phone. When her assistant blanched, she realised that some of the slightly homicidal rage she was feeling must have shown on her face. Bad, that. She needed to keep control for Mycroft’s sake.

So, only allowing herself a single silent curse on Sherlock’s name, she nodded at young Tony. “Can you organise my notes regarding the chatter from the G7 preparations into a report for Baker and Singh?”

“Yes, mum,” he said. The name was often a joke between them, but at the moment he didn’t seem to be jesting. “On your desk first, yes?”

“Yes, thank you. As early tomorrow as you can make it.” She smiled a dismissal. The chill she was feeling, however, must have registered in her eyes, for his departure was more in the nature of a full-on retreat.  
Typical Cantabrigian, she thought, and then reached for her phone.

**Understood. Shall I bring you a change of clothes? A.**

Not that he’d said where he was, but she _was_ a spy, and she had her ways of keeping track of her partner. Mycroft was currently on a restricted airstrip at a private airfield outside London; if Sherlock was there, too, the nearest clinic would be near Oxford and Mycroft would be haunting the halls….

**Thank you, no. I’ll be home at the usual time. M.**

**He gave John the list. M.**

Goddamn it, that little _shit_ , she thought. She did not mean Mycroft or John.

She breathed in, breathed out the fury, and checked her diary. Nothing (other than a meeting with 6) she couldn’t move until later. After carefully assessing his texts and adjusting her phrasing accordingly –

**I’ll be waiting for you. A.**

Then she pulled her laptop closer whilst simultaneously reaching for her secured phone. She had a lot to do before 7:30.  
…………………………

At 7:32, she heard the discreet ping of the private lift doors in their foyer.

“I’m in here, Mycroft,” she said, her voice raised just over her normal speaking range. He’d be needing quiet on a night like this, his senses irritated and over-stimulated by the day’s adrenaline. It was a personal victory, she thought, that he hadn’t gone straight to the Diogenes. Of course he hadn’t resorted to that refuge in the past year or two of Sherlock’s disasters….

Pensively she stirred the bathwater – just the right balance of heat and cool – with her forefinger. Mycroft ordinarily didn’t use oil in his bath, but she had some of his custom oil from Creed to hand if he changed his mind.

She felt his shadow before she saw him in the doorway. She took inventory: tired, sad eyes; slumped shoulders, even free of his overcoat, which he must have hung up on the coat rack (a bad sign); loosened tie, which meant he was very close to losing his composure completely.

“Hullo, darling,” she said, and rose, and went to him.

“Anthea,” he said, and took her in his arms. She knew this was so that he could hide his face against her hair, so that he could be shattered (just for a moment) without her seeing him. He of course knew that _she_ knew, but there was such a thing as plausible deniability.

She rested her cheek against his heart, put her arms around him and took hold of his braces in back, and considered her own list of ways to murder Sherlock. It was up to 102 possibilities now. She’d been working on it for years; in her imagination it was dog-eared, slightly blood-stained, but with plenty of room for additions. (In the ordinary way she enjoyed Sherlock for his brilliance and dash and they'd developed a working relationship, but he hurt his brother so often, so carelessly: she could never entirely forgive him for that. She left the forgiveness to Mycroft, who had an unending supply.)

Soon enough he stirred, and lifted his head. “You’ve run my bath, I see. Yes, you may include the oil if you can stand it.”

“Of course I can.” She kissed his shoulder before looking up. “Shall I play valet, or would you like me to brew your infusion?”

He stepped back, but then he took her hand. “I would rather like to share my bath with you, actually.”

Years they’d been together, yet he still had the gift of surprising her. He always bathed alone. This was a welcome twist in their interplay, however, and she allowed herself to kiss him before answering, “I’m in favour of such a plan.”

“Perhaps a glass of something as well? We’ve a nice St Emilion which won’t need much time to breathe.”

“A glass of _wine_?” she said, without thinking, and immediately winced – two solecisms she would never usually commit.

“Yes, dear. I realise you’re thinking that I never drink on nights like this.” A shade of pain in his voice, but only a shade. “You deduce that I don’t wish to… indulge. And hitherto you’d have been exactly right.”

“Mycroft,” she said. She couldn’t manage anything else. He’d all but torn up her usual script, and all she could do was hold on to him and wait for her cues.

He didn’t disappoint her. He kissed her, parting her lips and seeking comfort inside, and she knew where his mind was. Occasionally – very occasionally – he worked out unhappiness or frustration in a session in bed; this was, of course, her preference amongst his coping strategies. She kissed back, running her hands across his shoulders and around and down his chest, heading for his trousers –

“Wine,” he whispered, and stepped out of reach.

With only a raised eyebrow for comment, she left. Once she was out of earshot, however, she exhaled long and slow. Damn the man, she thought lovingly. But whatever he needed, she would willingly give.

When she came back with two glasses of wine, he was already in the tub. A quick glance showed her that their phones were on the special shelf in case of emergency but out of immediate reach. More to the point, he’d found the candles she only used when he was out of town and she was feeling sorry for herself, and he’d placed them at exactly the places she did on those solitary nights. The flames were still and strong in the half-darkened bathroom. He looked up, and his eyes had never seemed so blue.

“Join me, my dear,” he said, and leaned back against the porcelain invitingly.

No, this wasn’t any coping strategy she’d seen before.

After she gave him his glass, she took off her loose cashmere jumper and her pyjama trousers, and went into the tub. The water was lightly oiled and at her preferred temperature, not his, she noted. His hands on her hips steadying her, he arranged her in front of him – then locked one forearm around her lower abdomen, his long fingers reaching down to find her, and brought his other hand up to her breast. As he began to play, he whispered, “Tonight I’ll take care of you.”

She closed her eyes on the stab of understanding. The ‘Ice Man,’ indeed: he had given much of his life to taking care of his little brother, and even while she deprecated some of the lengths to which he’d gone in that effort, she knew that his heart was true. If he wanted to expend on her the emotion that would otherwise go to waste – “Yes, please,” she said, and let herself arch into the pleasure of his fingers entering her, his breath against her ear, his cock hardening against her.

Whatever Mycroft needed, she would willingly give – and take.


End file.
